


like real people do

by Kylaroid



Category: Mr. Robot - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Fluff, In later chapters - Freeform, Post-Canon Fix-It, Season 4 Spoilers, Smut, because there will probably be some nsfw chapters later, that said i left the rating open, this is mostly fluff and wholesome content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:26:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylaroid/pseuds/Kylaroid
Summary: "It has been nearly two months since Dom’s fateful flight to Budapest, and she’s finally settled into an actual apartment. Ever since their farewell at the airport, Dom and Darlene have been texting and FaceTiming consistently. Dom isn’t sure what their relationship is, but neither of them seem particularly pressed to place a label on it. All she knows is that Darlene occupies a certain soft place in her heart."4x10 was amazing but I have not emotionally recovered so I wrote this to help. It will probably just be a series of fluff and filler pieces detailing their six months apart!
Relationships: Darlene Alderson/Dominique DiPierro
Comments: 16
Kudos: 117





	1. first day of my life

It has been nearly two months since Dom’s fateful flight to Budapest, and she’s finally settled into an actual apartment. Staying at a motel, no matter how cheap and no matter how much savings she had, wasn't a great long term solution. Her new (albeit temporary) apartment is a small studio, not unlike her old place back in New York, that she managed to sublet from some student studying abroad. Dom doesn’t have much but doesn’t really mind. Some clothes, her bag, a few books (including _Beach Towel_ , which she surprised herself by finishing) and other odds and ends she picked up in the city. The rest of the furniture and knick-knacks littering the place belong to the ever-absent Elek. Still, Dom finds it freeing in comparison to her old dingy and rather oppressive flat.

She swings open a cabinet door and inspects the contents. Mugs. None of them match though—not that she minds. Some of them have obnoxious slogans on them, others are rather simple and plain. Her eyes catch on a nice cool-green ceramic mug hiding near the back. She reaches up and plucks it off of the shelf to pour her coffee in. Warm beverage in hand, she meanders over to a small table hugging the wall and takes a seat. She inspects the window frame – it’s old, wooden, and the cheap teal paint is cracking and peeling. The slightest draft leaks through the old boards and brushes along the exposed skin on her neck. Dom takes a sip of her coffee and enjoys how it warms her.

The windows themselves are large and light leaks through them as much as the air does. Sunbeams dance across the old floorboards and light the room with a pleasant warmth. It isn’t a million-dollar view, but Dom confesses to herself that it is quite beautiful here. Even after almost two months, she hasn’t gotten used to the oft breathtaking sights of Budapest. She loves how the city lights up at night—it brings about a certain nostalgia for New York City in her chest. But somehow, she finds herself actually preferring the view in the early morning. The sun creeps over the horizon, casting a glow on the Danube River and coating the buildings in a warm ruby glow.

Dom takes another long drink and then sets the mug down on the table. Pulls out her phone from her pocket and snaps a photo – sending it to a certain familiar hacker back in New York City. She knows Darlene won’t be up for a while, so she doesn’t bother waiting for a response. Sometime since the big hack, she got some kind of freelance job and ends up working late hours in the night. Glancing at their texts reminds Dom of her first night in Budapest and a pleasant chuckle rumbles in her throat.

  


The two of them actually ended up laughing the entire incident off. The memory is fresh in Dom’s mind—vivid and clear. 

> _“I’m really proud of you, you know.” Dom hums. She speaks so softly that Darlene has trouble picking the words up at first. “I knew you’d be fine.” She adds, spacing out as she stares up at the ceiling of the dingy motel she found. “Yeah…” Darlene chimes in – her voice dry and weary. Dom wonders if she’s gotten any sleep yet herself. “Dom?” Her voice trembles a little, betraying her calm, cool, and unaffected façade. She waits for Dom’s response before continuing. Dom shifts from her spot on the bed, sitting back up. “Yeah?” Darlene pauses, licks her chapped lips, and finishes the thought. “Why didn’t you get off the plane? When you realized I wasn’t there. Was it because—” Her voice starts to trail off – perhaps too afraid to finish the thought. Dom interrupts before her anxiety gets a chance to take hold.  
>  “No.” It’s firm but soft. “You were right. I think… I think I really need this. To let go.” Dom’s words come out breathily—she finds herself more nervous than she anticipated. “Besides, if I chickened out I’d never hear the end of it from you.” Dom jokes to break the tension. Darlene chuckles and Dom can feel the heaviness of her chest lift. “Or myself.” _

Ever since then, the two have been texting and FaceTiming pretty consistently. Dom isn’t sure what their relationship is, but neither of them seem particularly pressed to place a label on it. All she knows is that Darlene occupies a certain soft place in her heart. Her lips curl into a content smile and her eyes wrinkle a little. For the first time in years, she feels at ease. 

Dom is still on administrative leave, although she received an earful from the higher-ups regarding her decision to leave the country. She wonders how it’ll affect the decision they make in regards to her punishment. During her first weeks in Budapest, she worried about it constantly. There were a few late nights when she called Darlene in a panic – insisting she was coming back to try and put herself in the department’s good graces again. Somehow, Darlene always knows how to talk her off a ledge. They seem good at doing that for each other, when they need it. But those instances have become rarer and rarer over the weeks.

The only concern she doesn’t have is money. She still gets deposits from work and with the money from the Deus Group redistribution and her savings, she has found herself with lots of free time. Perhaps too much. At first, the lack of structure drove her up a wall. Sitting alone in the hotel with just her thoughts and nothing to do was almost more excruciating than work back home. So she found ways to distract herself. She ventured rather aimlessly throughout the city, plowed through books, wrote (and scrapped and then rewrote) a lot of letters to her family.

Dom reaches out and grabs a notebook on the table. There is pen clipped to the cover and she pulls it off – opening to a dog-eared page. She has also started journaling – thoughts, concerns, ideas, plans. Now that she is finally sleeping again, Dom puts her dreams down on paper as well. At first, it was somewhat jarring to have dreams again – particularly since all she had for years were nightmares. But over time, she’s found herself growing fond of them. Sometimes it would be her baking in the kitchen with her mother or playing with her nephews in the family living room. Those dreams hold a certain wistful nostalgia that is both heart-warming and wrenching. Sometimes her dreams are completely and utterly mundane—like filing through endless heaps of paperwork back at the office. Other times, she finds them so abstract that they are nearly impossible to put into words.

Dom had one of her reoccurring dreams last night. In this dream, she is in the old safe house where Darlene used to stay while she was a CHS. The two of them are sitting on the couch under a heavy quilt while some unidentifiable film prattles on the chunky television set. The smell of cheap Chinese food drifts out of the containers in their hands and fills the apartment. Dom complains about how inane and ridiculous the film is, which seems to amuse Darlene to no end. The brunette leans over and places a chaste kiss on her cheek. Dom’s chest flutters pleasantly—warmly. She lets Darlene know that she needs to use the bathroom. Slips out from under the covers and meanders to the restroom. The door shuts behind her and when she looks up, she is at the Boston airport.

 _This is all so familiar_ , like a word on the tip of Dom’s tongue that she just can’t find. But in the recesses of her dream, all she can remember thinking is – _where is Darlene?_ Dom sighs, heavy as she scrawls down her account of the reoccurring dream. It is always the same. The same airport. She is always running, always trying to locate Darlene, and never can. Her lungs buzz and burn with irritation with each heavy breath. Sometimes there are Dark Army soldiers hiding in airport shops and restaurants with their ominous masks, haunting her—hunting her. Last night, she is grateful, there were none. At some point, she always wakes up in mid-run. Wakes up with a jolt and deep breaths before settling into reality.  
Dom finishes scribing the dream and flips the journal shut. 

Her gaze rolls back over to the cold windowpane and she takes in the city. She isn't quite sure what she wants to do today, but she thinks that might be okay. After all, it's a whole world of possibility.


	2. lucretia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Dom refuses to admit her trauma from that night—so she set up familiar and comfortable fences around it."_
> 
> Dom visits Budapest's Museum of Fine Arts and reminisces.

Dom sits on a bench in the middle of a hushed gallery. It’s the middle of the day on a Wednesday in February, so most of the people here are either elderly or students. And her. She sniffs a little, rubs her hands together idly, and exhales. It’s one of those days where its cold, but not cold enough to snow – so it rains. Cold miserable rain. 

But the museum is warm and beautiful and inviting. The architecture is gorgeous—with high-vaulted ceilings, ornate pillars, and marvelously tiled floors. Dom is a bit ambivalent towards the artwork. It’s fine, she thinks. Even beautiful, at times. But once you’ve seen one religious painting—you’ve seen them all. The same boring depiction of Jesus Christ, speaking to crowds or bleeding on wooden beams. Women and saints and angels holding babies that always look just a bit unsettling. And after a while, all the paintings of some unidentifiable men seem to blend together. 

Dom glances up, takes in the painting in front of her. A young woman has her fist tangled up in white sheets and there is a dainty little knife pointed at the flesh between her ribs. _Lucretia_. Her eyes study the piece, taking in the women’s somber expression. A cold sickening nostalgia falls over her and settles in her gut.

Sometimes Dom wakes up in a cold sweat—trembling, wheezing, coughing—and it takes her minutes to find herself again. Breath always ragged and refusing to come back when she calls it. ‘ _It was just a dream._ ’ She always recalls and she eventually eases back into the sheets. 

Some days it’s in the shower. Her fingers brush against the raised pink scar along her ribs and recollection flashes in her mind. The skinning knife slicing through her flesh and settling nicely in her lung. The memories send her reeling and she crumbles to the shower floor. Everything goes numb and her skin tingles like there is static coursing through her veins. Distantly, she can feel the sensation—nothing but pressure—of the water cascading down her back.

Dom refuses to admit her trauma from that night. She set up familiar and comfortable fences around it. She is unaffected—she wants to believe that. So she refuses to revisit that day. Refuses to remember how Darlene sobbed and begged as her trembling hands pressed a pistol against the back of her head. Refuses to remember how it felt when Janice shoved a blade into her chest and she slumped onto the floor. Refuses to recall the terror of not knowing whether or not her family would safe. If she would bleed out on the floor, staring at a sideways vision of Darlene with her large glossy doe-eyes full of pity and guilt. If she would die without feeling the sensation of Darlene’s lips against hers again. Dom refuses. 

But her memory is too good, too strong, and she finds she cannot simply will the fear away. The events are distant during the day, but become an unwanted visitor some dark evenings. Dom tucks the nightmares away in the pages of her journal like they’re headlines from newspapers. A hazy event from an unknown faraway place. 

Darlene had probed once, broached the topic with a warmth and genuineness Dom hadn’t necessarily been expecting. 

“Dom—I’ve been meaning to ask, are you okay? All that shit that happened on Christmas. That’s a lot for anyone, even you.” Dom swallows, lets out an exhale that is a little too loud and a little too telling. “Yeah, I’m fine. It all ended up working out, so…” Darlene scoffs into the speaker. “ _So?_ So—you almost _died_ , Dom! You can’t tell me that doesn’t fuck you up.” Darlene is upset. Dom can tell with the way her voice cracks and trembles. There is a latent thought unexpressed, hiding—rather transparently—in Darlene’s words. _It fucks me up. I almost lost you_. It doesn’t need to be said though. They both know. “Darlene.” Dom coos, drawing out the name in a way that always seems to soothe Darlene. “I’m really okay, trust me.” Darlene sighs and a trace of a sniffle leaks through the receiver. “Okay. Just—I’m here if you want to talk about it.” 

Something pulls Dom out of her daydreaming. “Kérdések?” She turns her head and catches a figure standing behind her. She seems to be an employee – perhaps a tour guide? Her eyes fall to the nametag pinned onto her top, which reads Rhea. 

“Oh—uh I don’t, uh, speak—nem beszél—” The employee catches her struggling and interrupts. “Oh, I can speak English too.” Dom exhales with relief. She’s been learning basic Hungarian expressions and phrases but hasn’t yet gotten to the point where she can easily have a whole conversation in Hungarian. “I was just wondering if you had any questions about the artwork or exhibits.” 

Dom turns back to glance at the painting again. “Oh, no. I was just catching my breath and, uh, getting to know Lucretia here.” The employee tilts her head a little to the side, studying Dom’s expression. “Ah, yes, Lucretia.” Rhea smiles, taking a step forward so she’s standing beside Dom. “She was assaulted by Sextus Tarquinius and so she stabbed herself in the heart to reclaim her honor. It is quite tragic, isn’t it?” Dom exhales, rubbing the palm of her hand with her thumb. “Yeah, I think I know just how she feels.”

_///_

Dom catches the metro back to her apartment—hops on the red line and rides it until she can transfer to line five. She pulls her phone out of her coat pocket and draws the pattern across the screen to unlock it. Grabs her headphones and places them cozily inside her ears. Dom pulls up her music and shuffles through her library. Slow Burn starts playing and Dom is satisfied with the song choice – placing her phone back in her lap. Kacey Musgraves’ smooth sweet country voice rattles through her head.

_I’m alright with a slow burn. Taking my time, let the world turn. I’m gonna do it my way, it’ll be alright._

There’s something calming about Kacey’s voice and the strumming of the guitar while the tunnels of Budapest speed around her. Before she can get too comfortable in her brain fog, her phone buzzes in her lap. She flips it over and sees a text from Darlene.

Dom chuckles under her breath, runs her bottom lip under her teeth as she inspects the text message. Dom is never sure where the line is with them. Flirting, dating, friendship, love. Wherever that line is, neither of them are very good at staying behind it. Always tiptoeing around it, over it, across it.

The two of them exchange information from the past day. Darlene talks about some annoying client she had. As usual, she complains a lot, but not enough to really give Dom the whole picture of what sort of work she’s exactly doing. Dom trusts her though. Darlene crashed into her black-and-white world with a fiery spirit and playful stolen kisses and painted her life in so many shades of grey she had never seen before. Dom still worries about Darlene’s more illegal activities but has grown more comfortable than before.

Dom tells Darlene about her day out. A nice cup of coffee early in the morning, some quick journaling, working out at the Westfit gym, grabbed a small lunch downtown, and then some venturing around the Museum of Fines Arts. ‘I didn’t peg you for a classical art kind of gal.’ Darlene snarks. ‘The nudes aren’t half bad.’ Dom shoots back. ‘Better than mine?’ There’s that line again. Dom rolls her eyes. ‘You haven’t sent me any nudes.’ ‘I haven’t?’ Dom scoffs. ‘You haven’t.’ ‘Awwww, are you disappointed?’ She blinks, hesitates, unsure what to say—where to step next. But Dom finds her footing a moment later. ‘How could I be disappointed when I have Allegory of Luxury to look at?’ Back behind that comfortable line. ‘OH, right, of course. Well, I gotta get ready for work. Let’s talk later.’ 

Dom exhales—releases the breath that she was storing in her chest. But a warmth still resides in her cheeks as images of Darlene—sweet and bare in her old apartment on that summer night—dance persistently in her mind. In the silence between one song switching to another, she can hear the announcement for her stop prattling over the loudspeaker. She reaches out—grabs a pole and steadies herself onto her feet and shuffles over to the metro doors. Dom stands awkwardly, patiently waiting for the car to come to a stop so that she can switch lines. In her mind, she's still swimming over Darlene's last words—let's talk later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have a particularly graceful ending in mind for this chapter, but oh well! This fanfiction cemented Slow Burn as a domlene song for me... Next chapter will definitely bump up the metaphorical rating. (This fic doesn't currently have a rating but... you know!)


	3. stop desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And here she was—in bed, touching herself, and still thinking of Darlene. Thinking about their text message exchange from earlier. Nudes. Darlene’s nudes. Darlene’s non-existent nudes, that Dom very much wishes existed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a note - if you can't tell from the summary - there will be nsfw material in this chapter!

The key to Dom’s apartment jingles as she fusses with the lock. The apartment is old and sometimes the lock sticks. She twists hard and shoves with her shoulder—finally managing to swing the heavy door open. She tosses the keys onto the small table by the entrance, beside a pile of mail and newspapers. Most of it is addressed to Elek or other past residents. Almost all of it is junk. The key to the apartment is practically the only one she uses anymore—the rest of the keys are simply vestiges of another time. Another place. Weighing down her keyring. Her red heavy wool coat shimmies off of her shoulders and is draped across the back of a wooden chair. Home sweet home. Dom inhales, deep – the smell of dust and old mahogany and hair spray from earlier that morning thick in the air. So much time to kill.

Drops of rain are still pattering against the aged glass windows, providing a soothing white noise that Dom finds quite pleasing. She meanders over to the bed—scoops an instructional book on learning Magyar off of the nightstand—and flops onto the mattress. Fingers find a dog-eared page and she flips it open to where she had left off. She practices most evenings—she thinks that it’s a good way to channel some of her nervous energy. Languages have always appealed to her and Hungarian is no exception. Besides, since she’s in Hungary, she had better learn the tongue of the people here. Back in the pocket of her peacoat is a small booklet full of terms and vocabulary that she thumbs through when she’s out. But back in her apartment, she has tomes and textbooks full of intricate and valuable lessons.

But Dom can’t seem to focus on the words and consonants and instructions. Something is buzzing in her system—an irritant, an itch—that she can’t quite ignore. She sighs—groans with frustration—and rolls onto her back. Warmth flutters under her skin and settles between her legs—throbbing and aching, wanting to be attended to and refusing to let Dom think about anything else. With a little reluctance, her hand is sliding under the waistband of her jeans. “ _Mm…_ ”

She hadn’t exactly gotten lucky in Budapest. Dom was still on that self-imposed sabbatical, but she did have an encounter once about a month ago.

///

It was late—traumatic nightmares had shaken her awake and she didn’t want to be alone. Strolled through the frosty streets of Budapest until she stumbled across a bar. The first bar she could find. The beer was cheap, but the Hungarian lager wasn’t anything to write home about. But the agent didn’t care how _good_ it was—just that it would give her a buzz. Distract her from the anxiety settled in her gut and fluttering at her fingertips. One too many cheap beers later and Dom was having a heated encounter with a messy-haired brunette in the bar bathroom.

It was messy and Dom had liked it. Liked the foreign swears that she couldn’t identify that poured out from the woman’s mouth. Enjoyed how warm and rough and crass she was. A fluttery moan slithered its way out when the brunette snaked a hand into Dom’s pants. She didn’t even know this woman’s name. She had said it, once, Dom thought. But it went in one ear and drowned in the alcohol. “Darlene—” Dom gasped as this woman’s hand fondled her—the name escaping against her better judgment. “Mi?” The stranger had rasped back. Her head was spinning and she felt like she was sweltering—and fuck, she was in a bar bathroom with some random woman touching her and _she was thinking of Darlene_. Dom summoned her strength—placed her hands on the other’s arms and created distance between them. Muttered an apology and stumbled out of the bar and back home.

///

And here she was—in bed, touching herself, and still thinking of Darlene. Thinking about their text message exchange from earlier. Nudes. Darlene’s nudes. Darlene’s non-existent nudes, that Dom very much wishes existed. _Fuck_ —Darlene knew what she was doing. She was clever like that. She was infuriating like that. As her fingers rubbed against her clit, Dom wondered what Darlene would think. Not that she had to think very hard. She knew. After all, they had talked about it once—a while ago now.

///

“So—” Darlene drawled out over the phone, clearly waiting for Dom to respond. “Yeah?” Came her idle mindless reply. The agent was at home—checking emails, checking on her family through Facebook, anything to kill time. “My interrogation footage, huh?” The words made Dom’s blood chill, sending cold waves throughout her body. She had hoped—god, she had prayed that Darlene would never bring that up. The humiliation was so overwhelming that sometimes she wished she had bled out on Angela’s apartment floor.

“Darlene we don’t ha—” Her voice trembled despite her best attempts to keep it steady—her nerves leaking through the receiver all too obviously. Darlene cut her off though before she could start rambling, before she could dismiss the topic and change it to something else. “Did I really look that good? My hair was kind of a disaster you know.” Darlene snarked—Dom could hear the smile in her voice. That overwhelming smarminess. So pleased with herself. The ginger’s cheeks flushed hard—the redness in her face accenting her amber locks. “Come on, Darlene, can we _please_ just forget about that?” She pleaded, her free hand raking anxiously through her hair as she spoke.

“Jeez, you don’t need to get all embarrassed, Dom.” She quipped—a purr-like quality to her tone as she spoke. She thought it was rather chastising—like a teacher speaking to a small child. “It’s flattering!” Dom scoffed at that—she didn’t need Darlene consoling her, trying to make her feel better about the whole horrific ordeal. “Darlene, really—” The frustration leaked into her voice, but Darlene cut in again before she could go off. “Besides, I—I thought about you too, y’know.” Darlene rasped, her voice suddenly more steady and serious. The coyness had melted away from her tone and the weight of those words sent a different kind of heat coursing through Dom. “I mean—a hot badass FBI agent whose good in bed? Who wouldn’t think about that?” Back to that playfulness that felt much more comfortable and much more like Darlene.

///

Yes—Darlene would be pleased with herself. Darlene would make some kind of snide playful comment that would make her flush and provoke the ache between her legs and further the wetness already dripping out from inside of her. Just thinking about Darlene straddling her—hovering over her and smirking with satisfaction as her cool blue eyes took in the sight of Dom touching herself—sent a shudder across her skin. Her free hand feels around the mattress until she locates her cellphone and pulls it close—pulling up a song to put on in the background.

She’s always appreciated having music on—especially when getting hot and flustered. It helps her channel all of her sexual energy. She already had a song in mind too—Stop Desire by Tegan and Sara. Darlene had recommended it to her. “ _Dude, I promise it’s up your alley. How have you not even heard of Tegan and Sara, anyways? They’re both lesbians, you know_.” Dom had rolled her eyes at that. But she had to admit that the song was good—catchy. And the beat made it perfect for these types of activities.

_“You were there, I was tired of this  
Nonsense when you pretend you don't.”_

Dom dropped the phone back on the bed and snaked her hand under her top and up to her chest—massaging and rubbing it. Placed a nipple between her fingers and caressed it—applying a certain amount of pressure that prompted a groan. Her hips were rolling up, off the bed, as she writhed against her own touch. Imagined that it was Darlene touching her, tending to her, loving her.

_“Get me, feel me, want me  
Like me, love me, need me.”_

Her fingers slide down between her folds and two digits slink into her cunt—greeted by that familiar slick warm wetness. Imagined that it was Darlene fucking her—god, she was good at it too. Nostalgia flickers in the back of her mind—back to that summer evening when Darlene had crawled onto her bed. The memories provoke the fire in her mind and the hand on her chest sinks down—into her jeans and find its way to her clit. Shit— _shit_. She had to pace herself, reduce the pressure on her clit or she would finish way too soon. The fingers burrowed inside furl, settling into a comfortable rhythm and generating a soft wet sound. Her tips brush up against her g-spot, against that rough bundle of nerves—and then ground against her. Hips wiggling and angling to stoke that euphoric sensation.

 _“Tonight, you're fuel for my fire_ _  
You can't stop desire.”_

Another series of furls and unfurls of her fingers and she’s teetering on an orgasm. She can feel it coming—like a massive wave at high tide. Her teeth dig into her lower lip as she winds her fingers against her clit—whimpers and moans building up as she does. “S-shit— _fuck—D-Darlene—”_ Dom whimpers, her voice shuddering around the name as the agent jolts into her orgasm. Body trembling and twitching—melting under warm pleasant waves of bliss. Her breath hitches her in throat as she rides out those sweet final surges, and then comes back to her as she settles into the thick heavy comforter. Dom returns her hands from the confines of her pants—looking at the glossy sheen coating her fingers. The aftershocks of her climax are still radiating throughout her, but there is still a guilt settled deep in her gut. _I shouldn’t keep doing this shit_. She can’t keep touching herself to some woman on the other side of the country that she isn’t even dating. Dom swings herself up—hops off the bed and makes her way to the bathroom to clean up her hands. As she returns, she can hear a distinct buzzing from the mattress. Her phone is going off. She reaches out and pulls the phone close—examining it to see whose trying to contact her. The name is all too familiar and the timing is all too frustrating. Darlene Alderson.


End file.
